


Turncoat

by GooseAndGold



Category: Bleach
Genre: 6 years post-Quincy Blood War, Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Rukia/Renji, Fighting Equals Flirting, Multi, Reincarnation, shinigami ulquiorra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooseAndGold/pseuds/GooseAndGold
Summary: After the War has ended and peace settles in, things shake out a little differently. Then, a lot differently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently have a headcanon that Grimmjow has a personal vendetta against the use of honorifics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apparently have a headcanon that Grimmjow has a personal vendetta against honourifics.

Shunsui wakes from a shallow sleep, dawn light just beginning to pale the sky.

He sighs, pushing himself upright with one arm, the richly-decorated comforter of his futon falling to his lap. The cause of his early waking isn’t immediately apparent—the night is quiet, the air undisturbed. A moment of quiet breathing, and he moves his attention to the next most likely cause—reiatsu.

Shunsui closes his eye, searching intentionally through the sensations that usually permeate Soul Society. He feels Nanao nearby, in the closest wing to his own quarters. Just beyond that, and Okikiba’s reiatsu is also a steady flare in his mind. There are servants and assistants, their life energy shimmering with different degrees of clarity around the complex. None feel out of place.

Still, there’s an…itch. Something is off.

Shunsui rises fully, and pulls on a kimono over his light sleeping yukata. He toes on a pair of sandals, foregoing tabi socks. He slides his door open, then closed behind him with a gentle click, and steps out onto the polished wood of the veranda, noticing that sometime in the night, the errant loose sake cups and discarded clothing was cleaned up by someone. He steps down onto the manicured grass of the gardens. Almost instantly he can feel Nanao’s alertness in his mind as though she were standing at his back, solid and attentive, brought to wakefulness simply by him moving. He huffs out a little laugh but decides it isn’t worth teasing her about.

The grass is wet with morning dew, sticking to the bare skin of his toes as he takes slow, distracted steps forward. It’s with his eye unfocused that he stares at the grass, slowly circling the whole of the complex. At each compass direction he stops, and senses.

North and East feel serene in his senses—not perfect, but undisturbed. When he makes his way to the West and focuses on the thousands of gentle pin-prick lights of reiatsu is when he finds the imbalance.

Shunsui spends some time there, still and searching. Long moments pass as he stretches the limits of his reach, his awareness spreading deep into the tenacious slums.

He’s certain of it. There is no mistake.

“Well, shit.”

* * *

It’s as he’s hunched at his desk, writing out cheat-sheet notes for an Advanced Physiology mid-term, that a hole opens up in the fabric of reality at the wall of Ichigo’s bedroom.

He turns in his chair, throwing an elbow over the back and looking over his shoulder to watch.

Abarai Renji jumps down from the portal, landing with deceptive grace on the hardwood floor of Ichigo’s room. He straightens and looks around, eyebrows drawn together and lip curling. “You still haven’t moved out of your dad’s house, huh?”

“Wow, so nice to see you too, Abarai-san,” Ichigo drawls as he stands. He plants his hands on Renji’s shoulders and _leans_ so he can push him the fuck out the open window.

“Woah, calm down, I’m not judging. I’m sure lots of other grown-ass adults are still suckling at the teat of their parents’ retirement funds. That’s not even…oh for fuck’s sake,” he growls as Ichigo throws a haymaker at him, “ _that’s not even_ what I’m here for. I’m on business. Captain Commander sent me.”

Ichigo blinks hard. “Yeah?”

Renji’s mouth pulls into a wide grin, clearly scenting blood. Ichigo isn’t desperate for contact with Soul Society, exactly—he’s a third-year Paramedics student and he _does_ have his own shit to worry about, despite what some might think. But yes…if a Shinigami shows up in the middle of a long weekend, sent down to the Human Realm by the Captain Commander of the Gotei Thirteen himself, it’s going to pique his interest. He’s _allowed_ to have his interest piqued.

“Soul Society business. Actually, he wants you, me, Rukia, and Orihime Inoue.”

Ichigo can tell from Renji’s voice that he’s actually pretty excited, and he’s holding something back.

“Alright,” Ichigo says, releasing the death-grip he’d taken on the collar of Renji’s kusode.

“’Alright?’ That’s it? No questions?” Renji straightens his collar with a huff and folds his arms dubiously.

“You’re gonna be an asshole and not answer them all, so why bother? We just have to get Orihime, right?”

Renji folds his arms. “I can get Inoue. That’s no problem. I came to you first because Kyouraku-sama also said he might need Grimmjow Jaegerjaques.”

What. “ _Why?_ ” Renji is watching his face carefully, Ichigo realizes. “Nevermind, tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m not actually free to run my mouth about it here in your damn childhood bedroom, but if you would just help me find the Arrancar…”

“My ‘damn childhood bedroom’ is warded up to the balls, and you know it. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Tch.” He scratches irritably at his neck for a moment, then looks back at Ichigo with narrowed eyes. “It’s Hollow stuff, essentially. He wants some ‘expert opinions’ to triple-check things, but chances are something big is coming. He can explain it to you just as badly as he did for me. Something about treating wounds before they fester.”

Well that’s ominous. “Alright. That doesn’t answer my question. And anyways, why does Kyouraku think I know how to find _specific_ Hollows?”

He gets a flat look for that. “Uh huh,” Renji dismisses. “Anyways if you could sort that out while I find Inoue, that would be great.”

Ichigo’s eyebrows snap into a glare and he opens his mouth to protest, but Renji has thrown the window farther open and is hopping through the frame to fall toward the asphalt, uniform fluttering with the sound of heavy cotton before he flash-steps away to another rooftop. The after-images of his movement trace their way across the Karakura skyline, and Ichigo is left fuming.

He marches over to his door and pulls it open, leaning his head out into the hallway to shout down the stairs. “Renji came by and said Soul Society wants me for something, so I’m gonna be out tonight,” he yells into the abyss of their house.

“What?!” Karin’s response is muffled by him closing his door again.

“Kon,” he barks. The door of his closet flies open with a bang, and the Mod Soul clambers out. 

“Yeah, I heard,” he says mournfully.

Ichigo pauses to glance at him. “What’s your problem?”

Kon crosses his little plush arms, looking up and up to glare at Ichigo’s face. “When you leave the body, it’s never when Rukia nee-chan is around. You’re always going off to do something _with_ her. I know you notice this.”

Ichigo tunes him out, stomping over to where his exam work lies half-finished on his desk. He slams his textbook closed, and then hisses. “No, no no,” he opens it back up, flipping madly through the pages until he finds the diagram he was just copying out. “There you are. I’ll be back,” he mutters gently as he carefully bookmarks the page before closing the book a second time.

Desk light off, notes stored, alarm turned off. That should be everything—Kon can be half-trusted to take care of the rest.

“Okay,” he says, shaking out the nervous energy suddenly buzzing in his limbs. “Okay. Soul Society. Let’s do it.” He grabs Kon, fishes for the Soul Candy, and swallows it whole.

* * *

Rukia is seated in a formal seiza position, legs folded beneath her, with Captain Commander Kyouraku Shunsui seated on the cushion to her left. Across from them, a tense young man mirrors their position, but clearly struggles to remain still under the weight of their combined attention. Shoulder-length, inky black hair falls around the man’s milky-pale face and frames a soft jaw. His fists are bunched in the fabric of his black hakama, issued to him upon his recruitment into Shinigami training.

She and her commander arrived in time to be seated and await Renji’s return to the compound—fortunately for the recruit, they’ve waited only a few quiet minutes. She felt the flicker of Renji’s reiatsu earlier when he returned to Seiretei, and her attention is drawn to it again as he and Inoue Orihime make their way quickly down the hall.

Rukia closes her eyes to prepare herself when she hears muffled speech on the other side of the shoji door; Ise Nanao-san letting them know that the pair have just sat down to await them.

Then the door is sliding open, and so too are Rukia’s eyes, turning to watch Renji and Orihime as they enter.

Renji has already seen their recruit. There is nothing but a twitch of his eyebrows to indicate he has any reaction whatsoever to the young man.

Orihime, though, has a far more honest face.

She gasps, her hands flying up to cover the sound. Renji turns to watch her, eyes gone sharp with attention. Rukia knows that Orihime has seen what they all have—large, jewel-tone green eyes watching them all nervously.

Kyouraku stands to greet Orihime with a slight bow, and Rukia rises fluidly in the same moment, offering a strained but sincere smile. “Orihime-san, I don’t think I realized how I’ve missed you until this moment,” she says softly.

“Rukia-san, oh,” Orihime flushes, dropping her hands to bow deeply. “I’m very happy to be back. Not that I was sad when I wasn’t here! It was fine, things are good,” she babbles.

Their Shinigami trainee scrambled to his feet when his superiors had, and he stands waiting now, fists clenched with nerves by his sides. His figure is slight. Slim, and somewhat short for a male—he is a head taller than Rukia but is dwarfed in turn by Renji. Still, his height is the same is what it had been—like every other detail of his appearance, it seems to further confirm his identity.

“Ulquiorra…san,” Orihime breathes, turning to face him fully. _Brave girl_.

“Inoue Orihime-san,” Kyouraku says, tucking his hands into opposite sleeves of his kosode. “I’ve requested your presence here to introduce you to our newest recruit.” He raises an eyebrow at the man in question, who doesn’t hesitate before bowing low.

“My name is Koumori Hisaya,” he says, without raising his head from the stiff salute. “It is a high honour to meet such a powerful ally of Soul Society.”

Rukia watches as Orihime blinks in shock, her eyes flitting between each of their faces in unmasked confusion.

“Koumori-san was recently recognized for his potential as a Shinigami from among the residents of our outer communities,” Kyouraku continues. He folds his legs and sinks cross-legged back onto his seat. When he gestures with a hand, Rukia does the same and watches as Renji drops down onto the bare tatami mats, arms and legs crossed but face serious.

Orihime remains standing with her hands clasped tightly at her chest, clearly stunned. Koumori stiffly remains standing in an echo of her. Rukia imagines he would feel unable to take his seat until _all_ of his illustrious audience has done so first.

“Koumori-san,” she whispers.

He watches her for a moment, and then bows again curtly, visibly unsure of how else to respond.

“We’re waiting for two more,” Kyouraku cuts in. “For now, I think I’m ready for a cup of tea.”

Orihime nods and settles onto a cushion between Rukia and Renji, her eyes still darting around the room for a clue as to what was happening. She’s stiff in a different way from Koumori—clearly not accustomed to sitting in seiza, she wiggles her weight back and forth between her legs as they wait.

Soft sandaled footfalls pad to the door and then come to a halt, a dark silhouette reaching to pull the shoji screen back. It’s a Shinigami who Rukia recognizes as a member of the First but whose name she can’t recall that enters the room with a tray of cups and a squat iron teapot. He steps into the centre of the room with a slight bow and nothing more, before setting the tray down and passing cups to each of the seated guests. Tea is poured into each cup, then with another bow, he leaves the room.

“Koumori-san,” Kyouraku says as he pulls his gently steaming cup a little closer to himself, “I wonder if you can help me with something. Could you tell me about the district in which you were living? Both Kuchiki-san and Abarai-san once lived in the South ward of Rukongai as well, albeit in a different district. That was decades ago, so I’m curious how it might have changed since that time.”

Rukia hears a shuffling, and glances to her side to see Orihime leaning forward, the palms of her hands braced on her knees. Her huge eyes are locked on Koumori, clearly captivated by the situation. Rukia feels a pang of frustration at the need to bring her here to endure all this.

“Of course, Commander,” the recruit says with a bow from his seat. “The sixty-first district is densely-populated and dirty. There are many without homes—children as well as adults and the infirmed. The quality of housing is poor. From what I understand, there have been efforts on the part of the Third Division to improve the living standards in the lower districts, and there is a general opinion that medical care and frequency of crime specifically have improved, however I have not been a resident for long enough to recognize the change.” Koumori regards Kyouraku steadily, his tea forgotten by his knees. “There are stalls and wagons, occasionally, which are attended by men who I assume are assigned by members of the Third. They bring discarded supplies from the upper districts—most commonly clothes and shoes, but occasionally household items. They never distribute luxuries, though the quality of the everyday items can be quite high.”

The Captain Commander nods, finally reaching forward to take his cup of tea. The action reminds Rukia of her own cup, and she takes a quick sip before placing it down on the tatami once more.

“I’ve been receiving reports that match what you say, Koumori-san,” Kyouraku tells him. “Recently I asked each of the Divisions who oversee a Rukongai ward to find ways to improve standards of living and distribute resources more fairly among the people. Each Division has been left to invent their own methods to try in their wards. Eventually, we’ll compare the results and decide which approaches are most effective. In your opinion, what is Captain Outoribashi doing well, and what has he overlooked?”

As a Lieutenant, Rukia would have been nervous to be asked her honest opinion on such a matter by her own Captain. Koumori, as a recruit who has not even been assigned his asauchi blade, sits up straight and frowns in concentration over the question as though his nerves have settled all at once. “The supply carts are an intelligent step—not only are the goods welcomed, but I have seen businesses for laundry or for repair of personal items spring up in neighbourhoods where livelihoods are otherwise difficult to come by. I have also noticed a change in the behaviour of the Shinigami who keep peace in the area, even during my short time residing there. It has been for the better.”

Rukia feels a change suddenly, a thrumming reiatsu resonating through half of Seiretei. From Renji’s glance at the door and then to their Commander, she knows he feels it too. Ichigo has arrived, and he clearly found the Arrancar. The reiryoku of nearly every Shinigami in the area where they would have landed has begun to blaze like a stoked fire, reacting to an instinctual threat.

“And what still needs to be done?” The Commander presses their recruit, seemly far from distraction.

The recruit frowns again. “The infrastructure is lacking. Housing is of a poor enough quality that repairs cannot even be made properly. The roads are only packed earth, and turn to mud easily. There are children who run wild without homes. I’m not so knowledgeable as to be able to imagine solutions.”

Kyouraku waves a hand, raising his glass in the other. “Not to worry, Koumori. You’ve been plenty helpful.” He takes another sip of his tea before settling the glass in both hands on his lap.  “And soon you’ll be starting at the Academy, hmm? I hear you had no particular issues with the exam. Which Division do you hope to be invited to join, once all is said-and-done? Could it be the Third Division, tasked with cultivating your former home, or maybe another?”

Koumori’s bright eyes glance around the room, clearly aware that he’s in the presence of two Captains and a Lieutenant. “Whichever feels they could use my skillset. Though, I have some ideas about which might be a poor fit.”

Kyouraku doesn’t prompt him to continue, and in the silence Rukia hears heavy footsteps and raised, arguing voices. Two. Male.

 _Typical_.

The voices carry down the hall, and all eyes turn to the door in anticipation.

Shadows barely fall upon the door before it’s thrown open and the Arrancar pushes his way into the room. Ichigo and frustrated-looking Ise Nanao follow him.

“The fuck is going on?” Grimmjow barks, his finger pointed sharply at Koumori’s face. His eyes flash between the members of the assembled group, demanding answers.

“Jaegerjaques-san,” Kyouraku begins.

“Woah, _fuck_ no,” the Hollow growls, and in the same moment Ichigo sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“ _Grimmjow_ ,” Rukia tries instead, rising and giving a shallow, familiar bow. “I won’t insult you by explaining why your presence was requested by our Captain Commander.” With the last of that sentence, she swings a hand around to indicate where Kyouraku remains seated placidly with his cup of tea, eyes just the other side of the line from cold. If the Arrancar can muster even an ounce of propriety, he will take the hint and calm himself. “The reason is clear. We asked you here for your…expertise.”

“Tch. Expertise in what, killin’ Hollows?” He turns, stalking slowly toward Koumori. His hand grips his Zanpakutou. “Better be, ‘cause I’ve always wanted to kick your smug ass.”

“No!”

To Rukia’s great surprise, Grimmjow halts when confronted with Orihime’s spread arms, as she appears suddenly in front of Koumori and blocks the way.

“Orihime,” Ichigo says warily, taking a step forward.

“Why, woman?” The Arrancar releases his hand from the grip of the sword, crossing his arms over his chest—white sleeves over white jacket—but doesn’t move from his place.

“Koumori-san hasn’t hurt anyone. I think?” She darts a suddenly worried glance to Rukia and the Commander, who both nod their agreement. “No one,” she says back to the Arrancar. “He doesn’t need to be punished for the actions of a different person.”

Grimmjow’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise. “Oh-ho.” He looks over his shoulder at Ichigo. “So it’s true, huh.”

Rukia is confused, overall, by this exchange. However, Ichigo shrugs a shoulder stiffly at the Hollow, and that seems to be enough for the both of them. He steps back, resuming his place at Ichigo’s side with surprisingly little fuss.

“That’s…that’s _it_?” Renji splutters.

“ _Renji!”_ Rukia hisses at her partner. _Must_ he look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Ulquiorra is a smug fuck,” Grimmjow tells them. “And I’d jump at the chance to shove my blade through his neck to show him who’s on top of the food chain. But if anyone has the right to claim that kill, it’s the woman. We can play her way for a little while.”

“Yeah?” Ichigo asks with a frown.

“You callin’ me a liar, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo seems to search his face for a moment. Then he closes his eyes and blows out his breath in a huff. “No. Just surprised.”

With that, a quiet settles over the room. Rukia, for one, is willing to accept the answer at face-value.  The Arrancar is not one for plots, and no one is more familiar with his moods than Ichigo. If _he_ trusts that Grimmjow will be patient for the time-being, then so can the rest of them.

“I’ll be the first to break his skull in once you’re done with him, though,” he adds as an afterthought as he settles to the ground. He leans back, with one hand bracing his weight and the other arm slung over a knee, and lifts his eyebrow expectantly.

Faith. Rukia must find an _ounce_ of faith.

“I think, perhaps, our young guest is owed his explanation,” Ise-fukutaichou breaks the quiet from where she has remained standing at the door.

Koumori, it appears, has also been stunned into silence. During Grimmjow’s threats he fell back, his hands braced behind him to allow him to lean away. It’s from that position that he gapes in quiet fear at the Arrancar seated across the small room from him.

Kyouraku sighs heavily. He reaches forward to set his half-finished teacup on the floor. “I think you’re right, Nanao. Koumori-san, do you recognize the individuals assembled in front of you?”

The recruit blinks hard and looked around the room. “N-not…by face, Commander. Not everyone. But by reputation, yes.”

The Captain-Commander nods. “Then you’ll count two Shinigami Captains and Lieutenants, a Vaizard—or a former one at least, an Arrancar-class Hollow, and a human with unrivaled spiritual ability. I’m afraid I’ve called them all here because you’re also a pretty unusual individual. I’ll cut to the chase—everyone in this room encountered you in your previous incarnation, eight-or-so years ago.”

Koumori’s eyes widen and his gaze darts around the room, but he says nothing. The Commander is certainly getting down to business.

“I sensed your reiryoku on what was apparently your first day in Soul Society—the day you were reborn into our world. We’ve watched you since that time, and decided to proceed with your recruitment only a few days ago. I’m not in the business of ignoring omens and significant events, so I believe you were reborn into Soul Society for an important purpose. That purpose has been part of the reason your movements have been under observation, and also part of the reason that that surveillance won’t be ending anytime soon. Any questions so far?”

 Koumori looks around again at the assembled figures, then nods. “Yes, Commander. You said that each person in this room knew me eight years ago—that would be during wartime. There are only a few names I can imagine are missing from a group like this, but judging by the atmosphere in this room, my past self not one of those heroes. I hope that means they are all still very much alive.

“My question, then, is: what sort of _threat_ was I to Soul Society?”

Kyouraku has the nerve to huff out a little laugh at the recruit’s expense. “Not a small one. You were an Espada of Sousuke Aizen’s army.”

“An Espada,” he murmurs. His eyes, understandably, cut across the room to find Grimmjow’s.

“Ulquiorra Cifer.”

Koumori slowly nods to him. “I know the name, but that only. I know nothing of who he was.”

“He was damn strong,” Ichigo mutters, and Rukia feels another pang of sympathy. None of them should have to be subjected to this—not Ichigo, not Orihime, not even the Arrancar.

“And he died, clearly. By Kurosaki-san’s hand, yes?” The recruit continues to regard Grimmjow carefully as he speaks, though for what possible reason, Rukia can only speculate.

“Yes,” Orihime whispers.

Another hush falls over the room as Koumori seems to work over that information.

“For that reason, Koumori-san,” the Commander tells him, “I’ll ask you to put up with us monitoring you for a little longer. Like I said, I’m willing to believe that your spirit has come to Soul Society for a purpose. I won’t intentionally hinder that purpose, and I’ll encourage anyone who recognizes your reiryoku to behave the same way. That being said, it pays to be careful. I’m afraid trouble is likely to follow you throughout your time as a Shinigami, one way or another.”

“I will gladly submit to your surveillance, Commander,” is all the young man says in reply, his voice empty of intonation.

“I appreciate your patience, Koumori-san,” Kyouraku says with a smile. “I may ask any person assembled in this room for their involvement in watching over you…or for their expertise on your situation.” His eyes flicked around the room to acknowledge the request—or rather, veiled order—he just made. “And I’m sure they’ll all be looking forward to seeing which Division you make your home.”

It’s as graceful a dismissal as they’re likely to get, so Rukia stands and bows first to her Commander, then to the others in the room. “Thank you all for attending. Ichigo, if you’ll be here for a little while longer, maybe we can take a few minutes to catch up.”

He smiles up at her, only a little strained. “Yeah, I’d like that. Gimme a few minutes.”

With that, she walks the short distance to the door, her mind buzzing with everything she’s absorbed. The reactions of each assembled person, Koumori’s assumptions and expressions, the Commander’s unusually indirect speech. She has a lot to consider, and it’s imperative that she consider it.

* * *

 

Hisaya is an obedient student. He is dutiful in his studying, he is efficient in his practicing, and he is attentive during lectures. This earns him the respect of his instructors, and the polite disregard of his classmates.

It is also difficult to achieve, with select members of the Gotei Thirteen observing nearly every step he takes.

Today, his supervisor is Abarai Renji-fukutaichou. The Lieutenant watches the Kidou instruction class, in which students are tearing through paper using Hadou technique number 1, the Shou.  A line of students steps forward when called by the instructor, calling out their incantations and pointing the index fingers of their non-dominant hands toward their rice paper targets.

Several students in front of Hisaya in line, a girl raises her hands with a little shout of glee when her target is nearly completely blown off its little bamboo frame. Her smile remains until the instructor points out that it was her neighbour whose attack went off-course and ripped her target in two.

She steps to the back of the line, shoulders tense and neck stiff with embarrassment. The line steps forward, and Hisaya follows it.

Some days Abarai observes classes that Hisaya is not in, and sometimes no classes seem to be under observation at all. “What do you think, Abarai-dono,” the wizened instructor Oushiro-sensei asks him. “How could the students practice to improve their Shou techniques?”

The man blinks and turns, breaking the stare he had been pointing at Hisaya since the beginning of the lesson. “Doing them a lot,” he replies. The instructor fixes him with a look that says she means for the Lieutenant to elaborate. “Seriously! Practice makes perfect. Do them up close, then farther and farther away. Do them while moving, if ya wanna make it hard on yourselves. You gotta practice every change you get.”

“That will make for a great exercise, Abarai-dono, when they are in class and not in the dormitory where Kidou techniques are forbidden. For those other times, have you any suggestions?”

A student in the farthest line to the left snickers.

“Visualize doing it, then,” he argues. “It’s all in the head, anyways. It ain’t like archery, it’s not physical, it’s all mental.”

It seems to Hisaya that archery is also a mental discipline, but it’s not his place to say anything—it’s his place to learn.

With that advice in mind, the next student attempts his Shou, with no better success than the average had been before.

The line moves, and Hisaya is at the front. He can feel Abarai’s attention turned keenly toward him. It might be just as obvious to the other rows as it is to him. He raises his fingers, chants the incantation, and fires the energy.

The technique lands solidly, tearing the target. It isn’t the best attempt of the day, but it is only one of a handful that will pass the exercise. Before he notices and catches himself, Hisaya is locking eyes with Abarai-fukutaichou. The man’s gaze is sharp, his frown heavy.

Hisaya bows when the instructor gives him some small praise, but he doesn’t hear it. As he walks to the back of the line, one of his classmates hisses a remark about him being a show-off, or something to that effect. Hisaya doesn’t notice who speaks. Those reactions are more important than anything else, though—they prove that these people have no idea who he was before.

The class ends once the round has finished and Oushiro-sensei has given her remarks and suggestions. Hisaya stands at attention with his peers and bows when they do. As soon as they have been dismissed, Abarai is barking “Koumori, come with me.” When Hisaya receives a few curious looks from the other trainees, he adds “Remedial lessons,” but the explanation only seems to make them more suspicious.

The Lieutenant grabs Hisaya by the elbow and drags him into the hallway. Hisaya finds his footing after only a momentary stumble and hurries to follow the officer who is silently stalking into the bowels of the Academy compound.

“Remedial instruction, Abarai-fukutaichou?” he asks quietly.

Abarai growls and comes to a quick halt in front of a door. He pulls it open with far more force than necessary and jerks his chin, clearly ordering Hisaya into the room. The shouji door slams closed behind them and they are mostly in the dark, with soft light filtering in through the rice paper walls.

“If you had any sense, you would pretend to need them,” he whispers harshly.

Hisaya studies his open, angry face. His concern is genuine. Obvious. The trainee is simply not sure what’s causing it.

“You’re afraid that I will appear gifted. Why?” It’s clear that Ulquiorra Cifer was uncommonly powerful, but those who need to know of his past life as a Hollow already know it. But for anyone else?

“Trust me, you don’t want to seem any more suspicious than you have to,” is the reply. “People might catch on. The Commander wants to control the spread of information as much as possible.”

“Part of that is to see whether I can be trusted with a secret, I’m guessing.”

Abarai flinches, but that fact has seemed obvious enough to Hisaya. No one can know whether he is loyal to the Shinigami—not without him being given chances to prove himself.

“Abarai-fukutaichou, I haven’t aroused the suspicions of any of my classmates.”

The man scoffs. “And how d’you know that?”

“If they knew who I used to be, they would watch me like you do, Lieutenant. But they make comments about my demeanor. They ask to partner with me on group assignments involving skill, but not on those requiring teamwork. They hold me at arm’s length, but only because they seem to think I’m arrogant. For as long as they behave that way toward me, I’ll know that they only think of me as another Trainee. There is also a secondary benefit, in that if they find me unlikable and distant, they will be less inclined to learn anything about me, and therefore less likely to uncover any unsavoury truths.”

Abarai has watched him carefully through this explanation, considering it with obvious attention. He unfolds the arms that were crossed over his chest and runs a hand over his face with a sigh. Hisaya can perceive his frustration, but doesn’t understand the cause.

“Koumori,” the Lieutenant says softly. “If your peers dislike you and keep you at a distance, they’ll be more likely to believe the worst rumours about you.”

Hisaya blinks. Is that true? “That’s illogical. They’ll have less information to base their opinions off of, and therefore more chance of being incorrect.”

The man groans. “I am not the right person to explain this shit to you,” he mutters. Then, more clearly, “Look. People distrust things they don’t understand or don’t know.  Especially Seireitei. It’s a bad habit, actually, but it’s also just human nature. But trust isn’t a matter of logic, you have to earn it by putting yourself out there. Making yourself vulnerable, doing nice things, making mistakes, showing that you struggle, being sincere. D’you get it?”

“No.”

Abarai throws his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “Awesome. Look, why don’t you try asking a classmate for help next time you don’t understand something?”

Hisaya thinks he understands the subtlety of what Abarai is saying—he has seen it at work in the behaviour of his more well-liked peers.  They are sincere, open, flawed, and good-hearted. It is not in him to act the same way as them, not instinctively. But he can be alert to the opportunity to do so. He nods, hesitantly.

“Cool. I guess. Ask me if you want advice, alright?” There’s something in his voice that makes the statement an order, not an offer.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He is to ask for help from his peers, and from his superiors. He is likely meant to offer help, too. Eventually. “Lieutenant,” he asks, as Abarai turns to open the door and leave to attend to other duties. “To what degree do you trust me?”

Abarai’s mouth pulls up into a half-smile. His eyes are still shaded by a frown. The expression makes him seem puzzled, maybe. “More than I did before,” he answers. “But you’re not in the clear with me yet, you constipated little shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Koumori" is a difficult character to write; I hope people don't find him to out-of-character in comparison to Ulquiorra, however I want to keep intact the idea that Hollows are more extreme versions of who a person is. Plus, Ulquiorra changed fundamentally as a person just a few moments before he died. Hopefully this is a credible interpretation of who he'd be.
> 
> The kanji for his name would be 香森 久彌. The last name "Koumori" in this context would mean "fragrant forest" but is just an alternative spelling of "koumori" (コウモリ) which means "bat" because I'm lazy. The first name means "eternity," or "long-lasting," basically.
> 
> This chapter was an unbelievable amount of exposition, so if you sat through it then you deserve to enjoy the fighting and sexytimes of the next several chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

Ichigo stands on the outside ledge of a high-rise roof, one hand looped loosely through the bars of the metal fence behind him. The building’s probably about fourteen storeys, which is short for most parts of Tokyo but for Karakura it actually gives a pretty decent view. He can see pretty much from one end of town to the other, if he turns—even on a cloudy night like tonight. He doesn’t really need to see, though. Just sense.

“The fuck is takin’ them? Think they all had to piss right before they left?”

Ichigo cranes his neck up to look at Grimmjow, crouched on the top bar of the railing behind him. “You don’t even have to be here. If you’re bored, just go.”

A scoff. “I ain’t missin’ this shit, you kiddin’ me? I’m gonna watch Ulquiorra get his ass kicked by a baby Hollow. All ‘a Soul Society couldn’t keep me away from this.”

“Different person,” Ichigo mutters, not for the first time.

“Different form, same person,” Grimmjow argues back. “Same reiryoku. You a different person when yer a Shinigami and when yer a human? Naw. I’d be the same person even if I’d devolved from an Adjuchas back to a Gillian. Bodies don’t mean shit. Memories don’t mean shit. It’s the reiryoku that matters. The spirit.”

Ichigo watches him for one long, quiet moment, during which Grimmjow’s expression gets more and more irritable.

“You got somethin’ to say, Kurosaki?”

“I was just thinking that was almost poetic of you,” he tells the Arrancar.

“Fuck off.”

“No really. But if we’re all the same no matter what, what makes you hate Shinigami so much?”

The Hollow touches his ear to his shoulder, cracking his neck loudly. “Shinigami’re arrogant. Stupid. Weak, mostly.”

“And Hollows are…?”

“Arrogant, stupid, pretty fuckin’ strong,” he huffs.

“So you _only_ like strong people,” Ichigo says.

Grimmjow meets his eyes again. “You know that already, Kurosaki,” he says without a hint of embarrassment.

“But…you hated Aizen, and you still hated Ulquiorra back when he was stronger than you,” Ichigo counters, trying to ignore the warm feeling spreading up the back of his neck.

“They were strong, but both of ‘em thought they shat gold. I got standards.”

“Yeah, you’re a real high-class— oh shit, they’re here.”

Behind him, Grimmjow stands to balance on the bar, hands shoved in the pockets of his black jeans. “Fuckin _finally_ ,” he growls.

Reiatsu pops into Ichigo’s awareness like little flames, flickering and uncontrolled. A handful of Shinigami trainees, and one seated member of Eighth Division, if nothing changed from what Rukia told him. Ichigo’s just here to make sure nothing too bloody happens.

“If we get too close, we’ll end up attracting the Hollows to us instead, and it’ll mess up the exercise,” Ichigo says, repeating the warning Rukia had given him when she first explained the whole thing.

There’s a long, silent moment in which Grimmjow seems to consider this. Finally, he shrugs. “Don’t care.” The soft boom of a sonido carries him away, and Ichigo swears.

A shunpo carries him as close to the group as he dares to go, hoping that he’s got the distance right so he doesn’t mess anything up for them. He can see Grimmjow standing on a telephone pole just down the road from the group, watching with a relaxed posture.

The group stands in a circle for a moment, probably running through the rules for the exercise. After a few moments, a smell like warm spices hits his nose. He has a moment to think about how potent the Hollow bait is before he hears the roar of a low-level hollow echo in the distance.

Ichigo settles his stance, and watches.

Below, the Shinigami break into three groups, with the middle moving directly toward the Hollow’s energy and the other two winging out, probably to flank it. The Eighth Division member follows the middle group in a beeline toward the Hollow, which frees Ichigo up to focus on Koumori in the left flanking group.

His reiryoku really is just the same, which makes the whole experience so bizarre. The young man is armed with his assigned asauchi blade now, and takes the rear as his group approaches the Hollow’s location. Ichigo crouches and pushes off the roof, launching himself in a lazy arc onto the next rooftop so he can get a better view as they move farther away.

Another roar sounds, and it seems like the first group has engaged the hollow. He leaps again, landing on a radio tower and hanging off the side. From here, the spice smell from earlier is stronger, filling his mouth and nose. But from this perch, he can see the Hollow—big, for such a low level, and vaguely reptilian, but it’s nothing too exciting. Nothing the Shinigami they sent should have any problem with.

The trainees attack with overly-telegraphed moves, weak swings, stiff motions. They’re obviously scared out of their minds. They clearly struggle to decide what to do before the other two groups arrive from the back and each take a hind leg to strike at.

Ichigo’s not really sure what he should be looking for, but Koumori seems like a gifted student. He doesn’t hesitate much, and his movements look practiced, if not really natural yet. Ichigo can see and feel the potential there, but there’s nothing _impossible_ about him. If he couldn’t recognize that cold, sharp reiryoku, the guy probably wouldn’t stand out to him. He wouldn’t know to pay attention.

One of the trainees from the right flanking group hacks off the Hollow’s foot and it stumbles, roaring. Its blood splatters on the pavement and begins to disintegrate almost as soon as it hits the air. The students move back from the Hollow as it thrashes erratically.

Koumori raises a hand then, all four fingers pointed forward like a blade, and his fingertips begin to glow blue-white. Ichigo is shit with Kidou techniques so he shunpos over to the next rooftop, coming closer yet again to see what the trainee plans to do.

Naturally, that’s the moment that Ichigo hears a distorted ripping sound, coming from below.

“Ah, crap.”

Grimmjow starts laughing from his perch on top of the phone pole, the unhelpful bastard. “That’s on _you_ , Kurosaki,” he shouts over to Ichigo. The students look up at the Arrancar, some pointing and one even screaming. Seems like they’re suddenly ignoring the low-level within striking distance of them all.

Honestly, if there’s anything they should be paying attention to, it’s the Adjuchas crawling its way out of the Garganta that’s torn itself open. It’s a centipede-looking thing, each segment of its body plated in bone with slimy-looking legs sticking out. Its mask makes its face look like it’s split in an insane grin. Meanwhile the low-level has definitely recovered from its earlier amputation and is hauling itself up on a new foot in the middle of the group of trainees. Even the Eighth Division member is too distracted by the presence of the other two Hollows to notice.

“Fuck,” Ichigo spits, his hand going to his sword. “Watch yourselves!”

“Kurosaki,” Grimmjow snaps. Ichigo freezes abruptly, looking over at the Arrancar. “You shunpo down there into the middle of that cloud of bait, and you’ll draw even more Hollows down on ‘em.”

He’s right, the bastard. “Then why don’t _you_ go down there and kill the Hollows?”

The laugh he gets for that is louder than is _really_ necessary. “Naw. The baby Shinigami are here to train.  Let ‘em train.”

He’s going to get Koumori killed.

Ichigo growls and considers jumping away, but it’s true that he’s shit at suppressing his reiatsu. He doesn’t know anything about Hollow bait but he’s going to have to trust that Grimmjow’d know exactly how it works. Based on him being a Hollow, and all.

Koumori seems to be the target for the low-level Hollow, while the Adjuchas is being engaged by the chaperone Shinigami. While one of the trainees has collapsed to the ground in fear, the others try to engage their enemies. The centipede Adjuchas rises up like a cobra and cackles. It lunges with its mouth gaping, snapping at the Shinigami and narrowly missing her.

A short young man rushes it from behind, raising his asauchi to drive it between the plated armour. His angle is off, just slightly, and the sword snaps in half upon impact. The centipede writhes and throws him off, his body skidding along the pavement.

Koumori dodges a swipe of sharp, reptilian claws. His movements are efficient and sharp. In the following moment, though, he doesn’t use the opening to strike. He stands with wide eyes focused and waits to react to the next attack. But just responding won’t be good enough—he’s already tiring.

One of Koumori’s classmates raises a hand and begins the chant for a Kidou technique. The Hollow hears her and turns, swiping its claws out in a wide arc. Koumori takes it all in silently before he moves, his sword pivoting into an offensive angle.

The Adjuchas lets out an animal roar as two of its legs are shorn off the right side of its body by the member of the Eighth, but it drops and rolls its giant body, scattering the trainees who had approached it looking for an opening. When it finds its footing it rears up and screams. “You won’t _live_ to regret striking me,” it growls. Its mouth opens, and a harsh red light begins to glow from inside the gaping mouth lined with trails of saliva.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Ichigo leaps from his perch and lands heavy on a nearby roof, taking off at a sprint toward the fight.

“Kurosa—fuck it,” Grimmjow growls from across the wide avenue.

The cero swells, and then the centipede fires. Its attack hums as it launches through the air into the shoulder of one of the trainees, who goes down with a cry.

Fuck restraint, Ichigo thinks, and draws Zengetsu to release the blade.

“ _Bankai_.”

“ _Santen Kesshun!”_

Ichigo’s head whips around at the sound of Orihime’s voice, in time to see the gold flash of her power activating. The Adjuchas’s next strike is halted by her shield. It roars its anger and rears up again. Its next strike arches, reaching to try to avoid Orihime’s shield, but the spirits reposition to easily stop it again.

With that, Ichigo can focus on the other one. He leaps off the rooftop and shunpos over to the low-level, driving his sword quickly through its mask and then pivoting out of the way of an asauchi, swung by a trainee who probably didn’t even see him move.

“K-Kurosaki Ichigo-dono!” The young man splutters.

Ichigo hears a laugh from behind him. He turns with a frown to see Grimmjow drawing Pantera. “What’re you—”

Another Garganta tears the sky in half, and Adjuchas pile out of it like a goddamn clown car.

“Told ya, Kurosaki- _dono_.”

“Stuff it.” Ichigo meets the Arrancar’s eyes. “You gonna fight with us?”

Grimmjow holds up his sword. “Ya think I’m holding this to clean it?” he scoffs.

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “Whatever, asshole. You take the left, and I’ll—” He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence when Grimmjow leaps into a sonido, bearing down on the _right_ half of the approaching swarm of Hollows. “ _Asshole_ ,” Ichigo repeats under his breath.

Honestly, the only thing Grimmjow is good for is probably fighting, and he does it well. Dodging between terrified trainees who can’t react near fast enough, he cuts down one Adjuchas after another without an ounce of remorse for his fellow Hollows. Ichigo follows suit, paying a _little_ closer attention to which trainees are about to get run through by sharp claws or spiked tails as he chooses his targets. It feels so good, so smooth, _so natural_. They’re just Adjuchas but he can hear his heart pounding in his ears and adrenaline heating up his chest.

A flash-step carries him forward and he lands in front of Koumori for a split second. Their eyes lock, and Ichigo could swear the young man’s gaze scans his face before he flashes away once more.

By the time he’s done, Zangetsu is painted with a rainbow of blood, running together into muddy brown. He’s breathing heavy but this level of fight is definitely still within his ability. He looks up to see Grimmjow dispatch the last of the new Adjuchas; he spears Pantera through a bulbous eye, then pushes the limp body off his sword with a booted foot. When his head whips up to scan the street for anything else to kill, and his face is split in a feral grin that Ichigo hasn’t seen in…a while. He’s caught staring at it for a long, stretched-out moment until the silence is broken by Orihime’s voice.

“ _Souten Kisshun_ ,” she calls briskly. Ichigo sucks in a breath and turns to see a healing barrier settle over the trainee whose shoulder was scorched by a cero.

Right. Shit. He still has work to do.

As soon as her healing power is stable over her wounded patient, Orihime is hauling up the long skirt she’s wearing and rushing over toward them. She runs past, her breath coming heavy but eyes hard and determined. “Koumori-san, you’re injured too,” she says as she comes to a halt in front of the young man.

Koumori watches her with wide, cautious eyes. She reaches out pulls his arm forward, where blood sluggishly drips from a ragged hole in the fabric of his kosode.

“Ah,” he breathes, looking down and seeming to notice it for the first time.

“I’m…can I take a look, Koumori-san?” Her hands are hovering just over the wound on his arm, her eyes locked on his.

The trainee looks down and seems to consider something before he says “Please, Inoue-san.”

Ichigo is watching them interacting with each other with tension that he can’t shake out of his shoulders. Orihime seems to trust Koumori just fine, gently pulling shredded cloth away from blood that’s gone tacky with exposure to the air, but she trusts a lot of people she shouldn’t. Plus, he’s always felt a bit protective of her. Not because she can’t take care of herself, but because she _doesn’t_ take care of herself. Hell, she’d even willingly trusted—

Ichigo blinks and glances over at Grimmjow. He’s watching the interaction too, with his arms crossed and his posture screaming ‘lazy disinterest.’ Would he be tense if he thought Orihime was in danger, or would he just be entertained?

Ichigo scrubs at his face in frustration. Fuck, it shouldn’t be this hard to figure out what he’s supposed to be doing.

 “Kurosaki-san,” a woman’s voice calls, and Ichigo turns to see the Eighth member jogging toward him. She’s a Black woman, long hair ordered in corn rows and tied into a messy knot at the top of her head. She has a nasty bruise swelling her cheek, and blood is staining the white of her socks, but she seems fine enough. Her eyes dart over to Grimmjow as she approaches, and don’t leave him even as she addresses Ichigo. “You’ll have to move from here. The bait will draw more Hollows down on us. Can you watch us from afar to make sure we aren’t targeted again until help arrives from Soul Society? I need to triage these trainees, and some of them may need support in order to—”

As the Shinigami speaks, Grimmjow sighs and steps past her, moving to where the little coin of bait lies crushed on a ceramic dish in the middle of the street. She turns his head to watch him go, glaring viciously.  Grimmjow seems to consider the little white dish at his feet for a long moment, then sighs and squats to pick the thing up. He plugs his nose with one hand and tips the bait into his mouth with the other.

“Wh…how dare—” the woman stutters.

“Fuck that’s rancid,” the Arrancar mutters as he stands up. His tongue smacks in his mouth like a cat eating peanut butter.

Ichigo blinks hard at him. “If it tastes bad _why the hell would you eat it_?”

Grimmjow’s face screws up even harder, if that’s possible. “To _get rid of it_.”

“And you couldn’t just—” What? What else could he do? “…whatever. Thanks.”

The Shinigami has watched the proceedings with increasing tension, the shoulder of her sword-arm raised tellingly. Ichigo turns to her and says “Do you need any help with the triaging, then? I’m training to be a paramedic, so I can probably give you a hand.”

She considers him for a long, long moment, not moving a muscle, not seeming to breathe. “A paramedic,” she repeats doubtfully.

“Yeah, uh…I was gonna be a doctor, but bein’ in the same office every day seemed kinda—” a trainee starts sobbing and it cuts him off in his embarrassed self-justification. “Shit. Look, we have stuff to do.”

He flashes over to the young woman who had started crying, and puts his hand on her ice-cold fingers where they’re gripping her sword. He can feel the tense tremble of her muscle beneath his bare palm. “Hey hey hey, what’s your name, c’mon.”

She doesn’t look at him when she answers, but she does whisper out the name “Ootani.”

“Ootani. Nice to meet you. I’m Ichigo. Me and,” he looks over his shoulder and finds the Shingami watching him tensely. Alone. “Me and your chaperone are gonna get everybody patched up, but I think we need your help. Can you come with me and help me keep everybody calm?”

She doesn’t respond, or move, or lower her sword from the guard she has it raised in. Ichigo is ready to curse his stupid counselling techniques textbook from last semester—that was a fucking expensive book to not work when he needs it—but then she finally nods. “What should I do.” It’s tense and lacking in intonation, but it’s all he needs. She’ll be fine for now.

He straightens to his full height and looks around.

Orihime is healing another trainee, and Koumori is standing back, watching her. That gets Ichigo’s hackles up a little bit because he still hasn’t decided how he feels about that whole situation, but there’s enough people he trusts telling him to give the guy a chance that he’ll give the guy a chance. Warily.

Grimmjow peaced out at some point, of course, since the fighting is over. Now it’s the three of them—or the five of them, if they count their wounded assistants—helping a handful of others. It’s more than enough help, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t too little, too late. Ichigo was too stupid to keep them out of trouble, and too slow to pull them back out of it. The least he can do is help _clean up_ like a goddamn pro.

* * *

The Captain’s Assembly is tense as it winds up. Through the whole meeting, Renji has sat behind his Captain, observing the dignified tension in Kuchiki Byakuya’s shoulders as he listens to them discussing the changing borders of their assigned territories in the Human World, the ongoing efforts to clean up Rukongai, and even their upcoming preparations for the mid-autumn festival. 

The tension in those proud shoulders has gotten worse and worse for every word that is not spoken about the Hollow recruit.

Everyone is aware of it, and everyone has been waiting to receive more information about Koumori Hisaya than what was given to them in the official briefing weeks ago. But so far, they haven’t. Renji carries around the information he’s gotten in his gut like he stole something, heavy and conspicuous. There’s a feeling of guilt to know that Captains and other officers that he respects have not been trusted or deemed relevant to the whole thing.

Well, usually that’s how he feels. When he looks over at Kurotsuchi-taichou and his clenched fists and his bulging eyes, he really doesn’t feel half-bad about it.

“And what,” the Twelfth Division Captain hisses once their Commander says they’re dismissed, “of the Hollow living in our midst?”

“The Hollow?” Kyouraku’s voice is deceptively, dangerously light.

“The Hollow we’ve welcomed into our ranks as a Shinigami with barely a curfew or a stray urine sample, a totally unchecked experiment, a completely unprecedented and untapped glimpse into the nature of the soul?”

Captain Hirako Shinji snorts from his place beside Byakuya, and Renji feels deep in his spirit that he is about to see some shit go down. “You’re gunna have to be more specific on which Shinigami yer talkin’ about, my esteemed fellow Captain,” he drawls. Yup, it’s coming.

“Any Shinigami amongst our ranks is here because they have demonstrated their skill, and because they have _not_ demonstrated any disloyalty.” Rukia addresses Kurotsuchi authoritatively and coldly, which Renji knows well enough means that she’s had a nerve touched by the topic. He gets it; he has too.  “Beyond that, I believe Kyouraku-soutaichou has judged their origins to be largely irrelevant. It is their business only.”

“We have never before, in our _history_ , recognized a former Hollow who was reincarnated into our world. It’s not something we have ever had a way to track. This could have paradigm-changing repercussions and you think it’s ‘ _largely irrelevant’_?”

“Forgive me, Kuchiki-taichou, but I need to make one correction,” Kyouraku says.

Renji’s heart sinks. He’d thought that he and Rukia were on the same page as the Captain-Commander.

“The origins of a former Hollow—such as, for example, Koumori Hisaya-san—aren’t irrelevant. You’re right that he’s unprecedented. In fact, I think that that his origins will be pivotal in a new era. Nothing less than that. However, in the past we’ve made the mistake of thinking that that means such a person no longer has any rights as an individual. I’m interested in seeing what the outcome will be if we try something new.” That serene voice and that serene smile are still in place, but Renji feels something like a chill crawl up his spine.

“So I’m to believe that there is _no_ plan for that creature beyond—”

“I think you can believe whatever you like,” Kyouraku says, rising lazily from his zabuton on the floor.

Kurotsuchi’s mouth closes with an audible click, but his eyes are fuming. It’s a clear dismissal.

Byakuya stands as well, and Renji hurries to follow his Captain, even though he’d like to see the verbal fight that’s likely to break out if Kurotsuchi decides to hang around. Even as the doors slide shut with a click, Renji can hear the Captain’s voice rising in frustration and he sighs, mourning the loss.

As soon as they’ve left the room and traveled far enough toward the Kuchiki family pavilion to be out of earshot, Renji hears Byakuya hiss “What a fool.”

He looks over, cautious. “…which do you mean?”

Sharp eyes cut over to meet his. “Kurotsuchi-taichou, of course. Have some faith in me, Abarai-fukutaichou.”

Renji’s face heats up in embarrassment. “Sorry, Captain.”

There’s a long, silent, painful pause, but eventually Kuchiki responds with “Indeed.”

Renji feels like he should say something to his Captain. Something about Koumori. Trust him with some of the information _he’s_ been trusted with, to try to show him he doesn’t think the guy is an asshole. Much of an asshole. Every tidbit that he probably wouldn’t be flogged for sharing seems useless or trite, though. He opens his mouth a couple times, trying to get something out, when he’s interrupted.

“I’m sure you’re eager to return to Kuchiki-taichou.”

“To…Rukia?” He clarifies, stupidly.

“Yes, Renji.”

It’s probably not possible for his face to get any warmer than it is. As it stands now, it’s probably an unhealthy temperature. “If you don’t have need of me,” he manages to reply.

“Not at this time.”

Renji is bowing his goodbyes and getting out of there as fast as he can—not only to see Rukia, but also to escape the unbearable tension that seems to have come out of nowhere. He’s not even sure it’s because he’s sleeping with his Captain’s younger sister. That’s probably not doing their working relationship any favours either, though.

He hurries to the Thirteen Division complex in as manly and dignified a manner as he can manage, which means it takes just a little longer than a full-on sprint.

Everyone here knows him, of course, and all of them know he’s allowed free passage—not only as a Lieutenant but as Rukia’s friend and partner. He doesn’t experience any interruptions on his way to Rukia’s wing. He lives here now, essentially, so he doesn’t need anyone to announce him as he reaches her door. Still, though, in lieu of knocking he does like to at least let her know that he’s around before he enters.

“Hey Rukia, you in there?” It’s just a courtesy—they can sense each other anyways.

“Come in, Renji.”

He slides the shouji door open and slips in. When he looks up, he freezes in place to stare.

Rukia is half-undressed, her Captain’s haori and her hakama removed. The remaining black kusode and the white shitagi underneath hang open like robes, nearly reaching the floor. At her feet, her futon has been laid out and prepared, hours too early.

His stupid face heats up all over again.

Rukia watches him keenly, her eyes sharp and her mouth in a line. She’s a gentle person, and so she can be warm, or enthusiastic, or mischievous, but that’s not Rukia at her core. The real Kuchiki Rukia is a hawk.

“I’m, uh.”

“You’re not interrupting, Renji. Come help me.”

She pulls up her sleeves and holds out an arm expectantly, revealing the knot holding her arm guards in place. He goes over to her, feeling off-balance again for what has to be the hundredth time today. He reaches up and pulls at the chord, watching the white fabric part to reveal an almost equally pale strip of skin. He pulls the guard off, gently, like she’s something delicate—he can only get away with it because she knows he knows she’s anything _but_ delicate.

The other guard comes off with just as much care and attention and pools at their feet. Then all that’s left are the robes clinging to her shoulders, and her undergarments. He reaches his hands up in slow, deliberate movements that he hopes seem anything but hasty. Fingers slip under the collars of the layered clothing and slip them off smooth shoulders to fall to the ground with the rest.

Rukia grabs the collar of his kosode in turn, and as she sinks down to folded knees on the futon, she pulls him down with her.

When down on his knees, Renji’s eyes stay transfixed on hers as Rukia pulls at his clothing, slowly and precisely peeling it away. When she gets far enough that her hands meet bare skin, Renji is surprised by the warmth—usually Rukia’s fingers are cold, maybe as a reflection of her zanpakutou’s spirit.

Rukia pushes slowly but firmly against his chest once she’s managed to bare it. The touch has him laid out flat on the padded futon staring up at her face.  Her hair’s getting long, and it slips loose over her bare shoulders to hang around her face.

She shifts until her thighs are straddling his hip bones. His fingers are itching to touch the bare skin of her leg, to feel how soft and smooth he _knows_ her skin is, especially compared to his own—hard and dry and criss-crossed with scars. In the end, he settles for the safe option of placing his thumbs at the point of her hips.

Rukia doesn’t miss the fact that his touch isn’t where it truly wants to go. Her eyes hold his for a moment before very deliberately placing her hand in the middle of his bare chest once more. Renji sucks in a breath—the fingers are hot, but they give him a shuddering chill up his back.  He’s half sure he can feel his pulse jumping under her palm. Her thumb strokes the seam of his pectoral, calming and comforting but still exploratory, until she shifts her hips and creates delicious friction that makes every other sensation go dead silent.

Slowly she moves her palm over to his arm, running up over his forearm until she covers his hand with her own much smaller, finer one. She threads her fingers through his to guide his hand, sliding it away from her hip to cup her breast, still covered by the twist of a plain cotton breast-band. He lets a shuddering exhale as she encouraged him to squeeze. He gladly takes that as permission, and carefully watches her face—the way her pale lips part and the inky pupils of her eyes blow out wide. He wants more of that. He wants to _cause_ more of that. He wants an involuntary twitch of her eyebrow, an unconscious swiping of her tongue against her lips, wants her nose to scrunch and her eyes to screw tight.

His thoughts drive him to get a little bold, and he starts stroking his calloused thumb against the raised impression of a nipple under wrapped cotton, the little bud of it hardening further. It could be an easy thing to miss, her breathing going from her controlled deep breaths to a shallow shudder, but it’s everything he’s waiting for.

Rukia rocks her hips against him again, and he whines. She’s told him before to let her hear him. More or less demanded it, actually. He rocks his hips up, testing the water and when she lets out a pleased, surprised gasp, it spurs him forward.

He sits up with her still balanced on his lap, and pulls slowly but steadily at the strap securing her breastband. She doesn’t move to stop him, only watches with shallow breaths. He pulls her back along his thighs, rough hands against the curve of her sides, her muscle tense and her spine arched. It gives him the room he needs to duck his head and to catch her nipple in his mouth. It earns him a stuttering breath that ghosts over his hair. He tongues at her, sucking and nipping and trying to pace it to drive her crazy, to string her along the way she’s tortured him with before.

Rukia is starting to rock above him, into his thigh, panting into the air somewhere near his ear. One of his hands slides from her side and down to her hip, encouraging her to grind against him harder, as hard as she wants.

“Renji,” she says instead, making his heart jump into his throat.

He stills instantly, fearing for a moment that maybe he’s been doing something wrong. He leans back so he can look at her face, and finds her expression dark with hunger.

She pushes on his chest until he’s lying on his back again, and she raises herself on to her knees. She reaches behind her, her hands working for a moment, before Renji sees her loincloth fall slack around her hips. She removes it with unsentimental efficiency, and tosses it to the side. He’s too busy staring up at her, kneeled above him. She’s gazing back down, meeting his eyes, and he _still_ feels like he’s not allowed to look down or take all of her in. She watches him carefully as she places a hand on the flat of his stomach, tracing her fingers down sparse hair, down between his hips. She pauses here, watching his face, for just a moment before she slides her fingers up his achingly hard cock. He hisses at the feeling, overstimulating but barely-there. Again she pauses to watch him, and he nods in case that’s what she’s looking for. It seems it was.

Renji’s breath catches on an inhale as he watches Rukia tilt her hips forward, lining herself up. She places her other hand on his sternum for balance, and asks “Is this alright?”

“ _Yes_. Yes, _please_.” It’s more than alright, but somehow he feels even warmer at the thought of her asking.

“So polite.”

Her hand on him is overwhelming. The warm and wet starting to cover the head of his cock is overwhelming. He clenches his jaw as she sinks down and down, slowly, adjusting to his size. It’s for her benefit, but it also feels like it’s meant to torture him. Her teeth are absent-mindedly digging into her lip as she finishes taking him in inch by inch.

He shakily raises a large hand and splays it across her lower belly, lets his thumb graze the curve of a hip bone. He can feel her consciously relaxing around him, taking shallow, harsh breaths as her finger nails digging half-moon imprints into his shoulders. The sensation of pain against pleasure makes him groan and roll his hips, more than he really intended. He realizes only after she starts slowly rocking on him that he could have just as easily been too over-eager. But now she’s pushing against him, stomach tightening under his palm and hips rolling to move him exactly how she wants. The panting breaths, the lip caught between her teeth, the scrunched eyebrows, the fall of ink-black hair, the tensed steel-tight thighs…he’s overwhelmed with how much he loves every inch of her.

Her movements started out as a slow experimental grind, but now she lifts her hips just an inch before sinking down again. She’s using his shoulder as leverage now, as she ruts against him, and the hand on her stomach finds its way lower, to the hood of her clit and under, hot and slicked wet. Her rolling motions stutter and her breath hitches audibly on a sharp little gasp, and he lets his mouth pull into a wolfish little grin before she gently swats at his arm. “Don’t stop,” she mutters.

He resumes, and then she does too, once she’s apparently satisfied that he’s going to work at her the way she wants. She tips forward again and seems to finally find a sweet spot, her heavy breaths having the edge of a whine that grows louder with each motion. He can feel every fiber of her body drawing tense and tight, and he wants to squeeze his eyes shut to fight against his the heartbeat in his ears and the growing heat of his own orgasm, but then he’d miss her face and--

He grabs her thigh hard in a desperate attempt to last, and she squeezes back, her thumb sinking into the meat of his shoulder and her core tensing convulsively. Her breath goes harsh as her mouth falls open, and he feels her thighs lock up under his fingers as the final warning before she comes, hands braced on his and arms shaking. The sound, the sight, the feeling is too much, and he jerks his hips and spills into her artlessly.

He’s glad to be on the floor because he’s boneless. The room is silent except for their panting breath, and Rukia is still holding herself up with hands on his chest, sweat slicking between them.

“I love you,” he tells her sincerely. “I love you so fucking much.”

* * *

Ichigo stands in his family’s kitchen, picking goopy leaves out of a pack of mixed greens for their dinner. His sister Yuzu stirs a pot of curry absent-mindedly as she reads from a Nursing textbook laid out on the counter. She and Karin are in their second years of their Nursing degrees, even though at age twenty-four Ichigo’s only in his third year of Paramedics. He’d taken Pre-Med, originally, and then switched halfway in, so it set him back far enough that his sisters has practically caught up.

He digs his hand into the packet and come out with yet another green-black clump of mush. He grimaces and wipes his hand on a dishtowel set out for just that reason. Looking down at the smears of rotten veggie, he sighs and says “This pack’s a lost cause. I’m running out to get some more.”

Yuzu doesn’t acknowledge what he’s said, initially. A few more lazy stirs and she seems to shake herself, putting a finger down to mark the line she’d been studying and then looking up. “Hmm? What’d you say, Ichi-nii?”

“Said I’m gonna go get more lettuce. This has gone bad,” he unties his apron and pulls it over his head. “Be back in ten.”

“Oh!” She says looking down at the package like she’s surprised to see it there. “You don’t have to! I can make something else for the side. Do we have any cucumbers left?”

Ichigo makes his way into the hall and slides his shoes on without tying them, giving his feet a wiggle. “Don’t worry about it. Just do the curry, study for your test, I’ll be back in a bit.”

He’s out the door before she can reply, hands stuffed into the pocket on his hoodie to protect them from the cold mid-autumn breeze. It’s five minutes down the road to the little family-run produce mart, and then five minutes back. As he walks, Ichigo stares up at the sky. Fallen leaves crunch under his sneakers. His nose gets a little prickly with the cold. He wonders if Orihime will have a Hallowe’en party this year.

Ichigo pointedly takes the long way to the produce mart, and pointedly doesn’t think about the shortcut that would take him past the Urahara Shop. He pointedly doesn’t notice the alleyway in his peripheral vision, and keeps walking the loop through town that takes him to the grocery store.

The store itself is small. Clean. Charming, he guesses. It has outdated movie posters and tourism advertisements posted on the walls. The fluorescent bulbs overhead hum softly as classical Enka. Ichigo find a package of lettuce—different brand, because he won’t be fooled twice—and goes to wait his turn in line.

A middle-aged lady counts out change in front of him. The elderly shop-keeper angles his space heater so it blows more directly at his legs. On the radio, the singer’s voice wavers in time with notes plucked on a shamisen. Ichigo doesn’t sense Hollows or Shinigami or anything out of the ordinary, anywhere. 

When it’s his turn, Ichigo pays for his lettuce. Takes the plastic bag that the shopkeeper hands back to him. Steps back into the cold. Tucks his empty hand back into his sweater pocket. Starts his walk back home, the long way. When he gets to the alleyway that leads to Urahara shop, he pauses. He looks down the alley where puddles from last night’s rain still haven’t dried up in the deep potholes, and thinks fuck it. His feet carry him to the store with more purpose than he’s felt all week.

“Welco—oh, Kurosaki-san,” Ururu greets him when Ichigo slides the door to the shop open. “How have you been? How can I help?”

“Hey squirt. Is your boss here?”

Ururu nods and turns, opening her mouth with an inhale to call for Urahara.

“The young Kurosaki-san,” the man’s voice calls as he steps around a corner. Ururu’s mouth closes with a little click. “To what do I owe the surprise?”

Why _is_ he here? What _exactly_ did he come to ask for? “Hey, sandal-hat,” he says more casually than he feels. “Are there any, uh…” _C’mon Kurosaki, just say what you want_. “Can I use your bunker.” It’s more of a flat statement than a question, but whatever, he got the words out.

Urahara pulls a fan out of nowhere and pops it open, hiding his obnoxious grin. “Oh ho. I’m afraid the Training Grounds are in use at the moment, Kurosaki-san. Is there any reason you need the space? I’m sure we could negotiate something with my other customer.”

Ichigo doesn’t know why there’s such an I-told-you-so look on Urahara’s face, but he doesn’t like it. “I don’t need it right now, I’m just wondering. It’s a general question. For the future.”

The fan keeps fluttering in a way that you could probably describe as ‘coy.’ “Is there any reason you’ll need such expansive space _in the future_?”

Ichigo glares. “…ce fighting,” he mumbles.

“Pardon me, Kurosaki-san?”

“ _To practice fighting_ ,” he repeats, overly loud. “I just want to…stretch my legs, or whatever. Fought those Adjuchas lately, and it made me think. I don’t wanna get rusty.”

The fan closes. Taps thoughtfully against a chin. “Yes, I think that would be a shame. Why don’t you come by, same time next week? I’m sure we can have it ready for you then.”

Ichigo nods, still glaring. “What do you want in return?”

Urahara chuckles, and it makes Ichigo want to glare more. His instincts are shouting _danger, danger._ “Nothing in return, Kurosaki-san. I think we all should be invested in keeping you in tip-top shape. These are uncertain times. Just be sure to be punctual, please.”

Honestly, he’s not going to get any more info out of the Shinigami until he chooses to give it, so Ichigo nods stiffly and says his thanks. He’ll find out eventually.

Ichigo steps out the door back into the cold, and pulls his hoodie up. He might be holding up supper, at this point. He gathers up his bag of lettuce and takes off at a jog back home, using the shortcut to carry him there.


End file.
